


How Two Immortal Idiots Ended the First Crusade and Changed History for Good

by Lady Mythos (Lady_Mythos)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate History, Crack, F/F, F/M, History is but a tool for my wishful thinking, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Multi, The Author Regrets Nothing, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Mythos/pseuds/Lady%20Mythos
Summary: Ever fight so hard that you end up creating a rogue government of Christians and Muslims teamed together to fight against religious stupidity?Nice going, Yusuf and Nicolo.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 95





	1. The Crackening

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I blame myself and the Gay Guard group chat on Tumblr for this one.
> 
> Note: apologies to all Muslims everywhere for using the word Saracen so often. This is an outdated historical term and eventually be phased out as the story progresses. If you aren't happy with that, then I understand if you don't want to read this.
> 
> That said, enjoy the story!

They. Would. Not. Die. 

Fernando of Venice threw down his blade and dropped to the ground in frustration. Holy War or no, siege or no, feet away from Jerusalem or no, he was done. For four days he had watched as the Genoese and Saracen hacked at each other. For four days he had seen one or both of them fall with grevious wounds too great for a physician. And for  _ four straight days _ , he'd seen them stand back up and keep fighting. That, or stagger off to their prospective sides. In either case, Fernando. Was. Done. With. This. Shit.

The Good Lord, in all of his wisdom, had decided to waste his miracles on these idiots. Fernando could not fathom why.

And it seemed like he wasn't the only one. Saracen and Pilgrim* alike flung themselves to the ground in abject frustration. Witnessing these two fools fight felt too close to the reality of the whole Pilgrimage. An endless cycle of kill and be killed. And for what? A handful of lands and religious clout? Many of them wouldn't be alive to enjoy their labor.

The clatter of armor next to himself made Fernando jump and reach for his dagger. A Saracen clad in blue raised his hands next to him. Fernando lowered his blade and placed his hands on his thighs in peace. He could see the fear loosen from the Saracen's shoulders at the gesture. The Saracen pulled off his helmet with a burst of sweat, revealing tight dark curls and deep brown skin. He sighed in relief. Reaching for his side, he pulled a canteen from his armor and downed it. 

Fernando wondered what his life had become that he found a random Saracen drinking water more interesting that the clearly immortal two fight each other to their temporary deaths.

The Saracen looked around before his eyes turned to meet Fernando's. Fernando paused. He'd never seen such dark eyes before nor such dark skin. At least not on a living person before. Seeing such a clearly intelligent face on what should be an enemy made Fernando queasy. Made him wonder how many other intelligent men he'd killed along the way. He dropped his gaze.

A familiar canteen clanked onto Fernando's lap. He looked up. The Saracen smiled and mimed drinking. On a normal day, Fernando would worry about being poisoned. But he just watched the annoying Genoese behead the annoying Saracen who then put his head back on his body and continued fighting. Poison would be a mercy at this point.

Fernando drank deeply from the canteen. Blessedly, cool, clean,  _ tasteless _ water poured into his mouth. Desert fighting was thirsty work. He longed to drain it dry but he could not infringe upon the unexpected kindness of a random soldier. 

He made to throw it back but the Saracen laughed and held up a second canteen with a saucy wink. Fernando smiled in return, saluting with his borrowed drink. Suddenly he longed to know more about this man. Why he fought, what he believed, and who taught him to offer an unpoisoned drink to the enemy? Fernando gulped down more water. Wine would be very much preferred here.

He turned to the Saracen, catching those  pretty eyes. Fernando thumped his chest. "Fernando."

The Saracen cocked his head. Fernando repeated himself. "Fernando."

The Saracen's eyes widened and a small smile spread over his cheeks. He thumped his own chest. "Hassan."

Fernando grinned. Hassan was a lovely name.


	2. Crack-a-lacking!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who needs war when you can watch two people keep killing each other? Also Fernando might have a little crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still ridiculous and I still apologize to historians for my aggressive revisionism. The word Saracen is still used very heavily in this chapter so please be wary of that if you are sensitive to this term. Joe and Nicky will finally be named next chapter.
> 
> Enjoy the odd, footnotes below.

Most of the fighting had stopped, much to the consternation of the various generals. But even they could not fight against the increasingly disastrous omen of the Resurrecting Two. It had gone beyond the pale. The men stood as lesson and warning to all of the soldiers standing. God and glory was not worth the bitter fight those two continued. So they all sat and watched. First in segregated groups which grew closer and closer with each passing day. Even a few women had come out into the would-be battlefield, laden with baskets of food and drink, distributing to all without prejudice. For all the world, this battle had turned to nothing more than men watching a never-ending duel.

On this particularly bright day, Fernando found himself lounging with his fellow Venetians. A lovely Saracen woman had offered them flatbread, spiced roast meat and vegetables, and a bottle of excellent wine. Surprisingly good food for a set of common soldiers to eat and so they all took advantage. 

Nearby, a group of Saracens cheered as their man slipped his sword through the Genoese's ribcage. Fernando groaned but waited patiently for the match to resume. No doubt the Genoese would be back for revenge. Then the Pilgrims would have their man.

The less Fernando thought of the social, political, and economic consequences of having two men essentially fight the whole of the Pilgrimage for them, the better.

As he waited, Fernando's eyes swept over the Saracen group onto to be caught by a familiar face. Hassan. He grinned and waved at Fernando. Fernando nodded back. Vincenzo elbowed Fernando with a cocked eyebrow. "Getting friendly with the locals?"

Fernando snorted, shoving Vincenzo in the shoulder. "I saw you eying the woman that gave out food. Don't pretend that you weren't getting friendly with the locals either."

"Yeah, Vincenzo," one Matteo chimed. "Aren't the camp girls pretty enough for you?"

"I don't know, Matteo. Is your sister among them?"

A hearty fight broke out between the men and Fernando sighed at the loss of attention. He did not want to examine why his gaze was drawn by Hassan's face.

Suddenly Hassan rose. His fellows shouted something unintelligible to him but Hassan brushed off their hands and slung a jug over his shoulder. He made his way over to Fernando and his compatriots, smile still on his face. Hands in the air, Hassan gestured to their cups and then the jug.

"Looks like the Saracen wants to offer us a drink!" Matteo cheered. "They might not be so bad after all!"

"It might be poison to kill us all," groused Giovanni. A chorus of boos and a missile of stale flatbread silenced him. He had been thoroughly miserable during this weird ceasefire. The Venetians had all grown sick of it.

Hassan, clearly an intelligent man, took hold of the jug. Keeping eye contact with Fernando, he drank deeply before recorking it. He then sat down and waited.

"What's he doing that for—"

"Shush, Giovanni! Let's see if he keels over."

Twenty minutes later, Hassan shook his head and rose to his feet. It seems whatever was in the jug didn't kill him. Probably would be safe for the rest of them. Hassan came closer, now mere feet away, holding out the jug.

_ 'Well,'  _ Fernando thought,  _ 'He didn't poison me the first time.' _

He held out his cup to Hassan. Hassan beamed brightly and poured it half full. Matteo whistled as the scent of strong grape liquor* wafted through the air. 

"I don't even care if it kills me," he said, cup extended out. "Anything that smells that good has got to be worth it."

Hassan, clever enough to read Matteo's tone, laughed and poured him some as well. The rest looked at each other, shrugging as they all raised their cups. Save for Giovanni, the paranoid bastard. Their benefactor poured for them all. He pulled his own cup and filled it. Hassan toasted them with a "Fe Sahatek**". 

"Salut**!" The men chorused and downed the drink. Fernando could feel his lungs burn as the strong liquor*** set his blood aflame. He blew out air slowly, sweet raisins on his breath. Vincenzo coughed at the strength while Matteo drained his cup like the wine lover he was. Fernando saw why Hassan only filled the cup half full. Too much of that would burn a man from the inside out.

Hassan laughed at their reactions, the sun caught in his suddenly honey brown eyes. He gestured to the jug and the men all clambered for more; even sour Giovanni offered his own cup. Fernando could only hold his breath. More intoxicating than the liquor sat this beautiful Saracen man, kind and generous to his mortal enemies. Fernando watched as Hassan tucked a sweat-damp curl behind his pierced ear. The just of his stubbled jaw moved as he talked in his native tongue. It enticed Fernando, conjuring up images of blue bruises made with eager teeth and sliding his sword calloused hands along the short hair.

A loud roar came from the Christians and Fernando, shaken from his musings turned to look. The Genoese had the Saracen on his knees, sword pressed to the Saracen's throat. But, even as the cheers died down, the Saracen still held a curious smile to his face. The Genoese leaned down. All could feel a sudden electric tang crackling between the two men. A tension uncomfortably familiar to Fernando. Neither man moved. No man moved. They all stood, transfixed by the frankly hypnotic energy buzzing through them. 

The Saracen tossed his head with a mocking grin and winked his eye. The Genoese snarled and stabbed him through the chest, stalking off afterwards. That seemed to send a signal and everyone began to pack up, Fernando and the Venetians included. Hassan waved a subdued goodbye before returning to his comrades. But who could forget that  _ look _ ?

"Holy Mother," Vincenzo swore as they all marched to their encampment. "What the Hell was that?"

_ 'The start of something even more strange,'  _ Fernando thought, trying not to think of grape liquor and brown skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *—This refers to the Iranian liquor aragh sagi, a type of moonshine made with raisins and apparently rather old as the Persians have known about distilled liquor for centuries before the Europeans. It has a reputation similar to American moonshine due to the crackdown on alcohol consumption after the Iranian Revolution in the 70s.
> 
> **— These are the Arabic and Italian versions of cheers or 'to your good health'.


	3. The Crack Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fernando is a broody guy. Also, the First Crusade was hella problematic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally stop calling Muslim people Saracens! Also, this is about where my analysis of the First Crusade meets me aggressively rewriting history to be a kinder place. Because The Crusaders sucked. A lot. The Fatimid Caliphate and the Seljuk Empire weren't saints either, bit they were definitely on the defense in this case.
> 
> Better historians than me, feel free to chime in.

The Genoese's name was Nicolo, the Saracen was Yusuf Al-Kaysani, and Fernando was done. 

Three more days of lounging around. My God, Fernando actually gained weight during this campaign. More women had continued to join on the battlefield and even several children were spotted darting between the clustered groups of men. It had already been difficult to tell the difference between Pilgrim and Saracen—no, _Fatimids and Seljuks*,_ Hassan had explained— but now the men freely intermingled. A few feet from his own mixed group, a crowd had gathered over a rowdy match of gameball** while a different group watched a rather intense game of chess. Even some of the city's denizens had joined the soldiers, a miniature market with many wares sitting close to its walls. The atmosphere felt more like a feast day than a siege.

Fernando couldn't claim superiority though.

Hassan sat close, leaning on Fernando's shoulder through peals of laughter. It seems crude jokes were universal despite language. And that was the strange thing. Several of the Muslims knew Latin and Greek*** which meant the priests were able to become rudimentary translators. These strange barbarians became clever men and women, with different faiths, yes, but also brilliant scholars and artists. Ordinary people turned soldiers. And for what? All many of them wanted was to protect the land their forefathers had lived in for centuries. Fernando couldn't help but wonder what claim a Venetian man descended from Romans had upon this land.

A sharp elbow caught Fernando in the ribs. He turned to a grinning Hassan. Hassan said something in a teasing tone. Malik, the resident Fatimid scholar, translated it to Latin and Antonio, a former priest, translated it into Venetian. "Hassan asks, 'What has your head in the clouds?'"

Fernando shrugs. He had always been prone to bouts of melancholy. His mother believed him priest material as a result.

"It's hard to believe that we were all bitter enemies before. I believed we were fighting for Jerusalem and God. But now the guilt would tear me apart if I Iifted a weapon against you or your people. I do not think we were in the right here."

Hassan's grin turned tender at the translation, patting Fernando on his shoulder. 

"'It is strange knowing that I sit comfortably with one who would have killed me only days ago. But such is the way of God. Perhaps Those Two—'" Fernando looked at Yusuf and Nicolo just staring at each other across the field— "'were sent to show our fates if we did not make a choice. Your people chose to lay down your weapons and my people chose to believe you.'"

Fernando nodded his assent. Hassan's people had showed far more kindness than he believed the Pilgrims deserved. What right had they to kick a long established group out of their homes? Jerusalem was a beautiful dream for all Christians alike but she was not worth the fight. Especially at the revelation that several Christians still lived in Jerusalem****. 

That had come as a huge surprise to Fernando. Orders had made Jerusalem appear to be a godless den of unbelievers to be rescued. The existence of Christians in her betrayed that. With so much information being thoroughly ruined in these past few days, Fernando could not help but wonder _what else_ the Pope might be misinformed about.

He was not alone in these thoughts. Many others had shared their reluctance to continue their Pilgrimage. For being heathen, the Muslims showed Christian kindness that would shame the Pope himself. To continue the bloodshed violated such generosity. Several monks and priests had championed extending their own polite gestures to the leaders of the Fatimids and Seljuks. Fernando could not help but wonder if the other cities captured, Tripoli, Antioch, and Edessa*****, did not deserve the sacking they had received. 

If the Pilgrims were wrong about Jerusalem, what else were they wrong about?

"Look, look!" Matteo's words and Hassan's shaking threw Fernando from his brooding. "I think the fighting is over!"

What?

Fernando stood quickly and watched as Nicolo stood with his forehead pressed against Yusuf's. The two men stood silently, swaying with exhausted frustration in the hot sun. None of the other groups had their eye on this moment. A lifetime passed. Then Nicolo loosened the vice he had upon Yusuf's curls and cupped the back of his head with an aching tenderness. The enraged handful Yusuf held of Nicolo's mail turned to a gentle embrace. They were tired. Tired of fighting, of carrying two worlds upon their shoulders, tired of dying and reviving and dying and reviving again. The conclusion on their faces echoed the conclusion in Fernando's heart and the hearts of all on the field.

Enough was enough.

Both men collapsed onto the ground, helmets rolling away into the crowds. Fernando moved before he could think. He dashed over, turning the first man he saw onto his back. Dark curls and a full beard. Yusuf Al-Kaysani. Fernando loosed Yusuf's armor and put a hand upon his head.

Shit. The man felt feverish.

Hassan threw a spare canteen at Fernando who caught it without looking. He tipped cool water into Yusuf's mouth, wiping sweat with a torn piece of some group's standard. Yusuf moaned something in Arabic but quieted at Hassan's soothing words. Fernando looked at Hassan cradling Nicolo's head in his lap, dabbing a soaked scarf along his neck. Their eyes met and there was no need for translation. Both men needed rest but no place could take both without repercussions.

"Come on, men. We can't let these two dry out. Not after the show they've given us."

With canvas and linen and rope, the combined armies of Christians and Muslims started to build a tent around the four men. Physicians rushed forwards to administer aid, swapping tools and translated suggestions as they did so. Carpenters and other workers hammered stakes as well as a massive wooden frame into the ground. Canvas and silk, tied with many colors of rope, rose up around the frame as fast as it was built. Women from both camps bustled in fresh bedding and sheets to cover the ground with. Within a half an hour, a makeshift tent, big enough to house forty people shield the Resurrecting Two.

Hassan and Fernando stared at each other and the rest in utter shock. Without a word, most of the people disappeared and the sounds of more tents being erected filled the air. 

It seemed both armies had decided to not only lay their weapons down but establish a joint tent city for all to reside in.

Wonder if that was indicative of a future pattern?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Fatmid Caliphate and Seljuk Empire were the main two groups defending against the invading Pilgrims
> 
> **Gameball was a medieval precursor to modern day soccer
> 
> ***I fudged the details on this one. Most Arabic scholars knew either Arabic and/or Persian. They might have also known Greek as several Christian scholars used that as their lingua franca (which helped them translate the great Greek philosophers) but due to the Great Schism, they probably would not have known Latin. The Mediterranean Lingua Franca, or the Pidgin spoken by Muslim traders and Christian Crusaders seemed to not really exist until several years after the Siege of Jerusalem.
> 
> ****The Fatimid Caliphate and the Seljuk Empire were actually pretty religiously tolerant. There were still several Christian communities within these regions, including Jerusalem herself. But they were a minority and did not have much political or social power. Food for thought, though.
> 
> *****Tripoli, Edessa, and Antioch were taken much earlier in the First Crusade before everyone turned to Jerusalem. Interestingly, Edessa seemed to be thrown over by a coup while the other two were invaded and sacked. This may be a crack world but the Pilgrims' actions here were definitely *wrong*.

**Author's Note:**

> *~ The Crusades is actually a very late term that was not used in the First Crusade. Crusaders were called pilgrims and their journey the Pilgrimage.
> 
> Again, apologies to all Muslims everywhere for the use of Saracen. I promise it will be phased out soon.


End file.
